What The Hell Is Wrong With Me and Some Pie

My dear friend Debbie sent me an email a few weeks ago with a link to a pie baking contest being held in Seattle and said I should enter. She often sends me emails with recipes I should make for her. She's bold. One time she visited Camano Island with us and upon leaving thanked my parents for inviting her when George interrupted and said, "We didn't invite you, you invited yourself."

True story and exactly why I love Debbie. She's fun and I only have room in my life for friends who are fun.

By the way, my editor, Clay Martin, is off gallivanting around town with his buddy Brendan who is in town for the weekend. I mention this only because he'd be editing me and telling me the aforementioned information isn't needed.

Back to the contest. Debbie believes in me and I have nothing to lose. I guess I'll enter.

Thursday night, the week of the contest, I made a practice apple pie. Clay took a bite and said, "this isn't award-winning." He was right.

I made some adjustments. Saturday morning, tweaked pie in hand I drove myself to the City Arts Festival pie baking contest.

I thought I was going to throw up.

I sat by myself in the back row and a friendly lady, who runs city-wide baking contests, came over to chat with me. She asked me which pie was mine and I couldn't even tell her. It looked terrible and I was feeling sad. I wanted to bolt but couldn't because I had borrowed my friend Curtis' fancy pie plate and had to stay to collect it at the end.

I listened to celebrity judges poetically talk about pie and why it was important in their lives. A blogger named Gluten Free Girl told a very funny story about Jerry Seinfeld and one of her pies. (By the way, what's up with a gluten free judge? We all know what she needs, gluten and some counseling.)

Once again, I digress. Sorry Clay...

I watched the judges cut and sample the pies. I was almost sure I saw Cormac, the owner of Madison Park Conservatory, bite a slice of my pie and spit it in the garbage.

I sank lower into my chair, cursing Debbie and madly texting her from my seat.

Finally it's time for the awards. All pies will be judged on "appearance," "taste," "nostalgia factor," and "overall awesomeness."

The first prize goes to someone who made a lovely meringue. It's a gorgeous pie for certain.

I sink lower.

Cormac (and Tilson) take the stage and talk about nostalgic pies. Cormac gives my pie best runner up in the the nostalgic category.

I straighten up a bit.

The rest is blurry but someone else gets up and my pie wins another runner up award! I don't even know the category because I was so shocked. And confused.

Then the lovely and talented Sara Dickerman gets up and gives my kick-ass pie the final award for "overall awesomeness."

Is this a joke? Did my parents hire all these people?

I call Clay and I also call Leora because she said, "Call me when you win."

And what's with all these nice friends who believe in me?

Then I stepped in a photo booth and took a picture of myself. I'm holding my prize, which is a certificate to have coffee with the pie master of Seattle, Kate McDermott.



By the way, my pie was salted caramel apple and I guess it was pretty good. Good enough to win prizes.

Pinch me.